Why 3 is John Watson's Least Favourite Number
by Penny Watson Lafayette
Summary: After being away from the flat all night, Sherlock returns in a much worse state than he was when he left. Sherlock whump with John panicking and trying not to show it. Trigger warnings- Drug overdose, unconsciousness, therapy, starvation
1. He stumbled in

It was late at night when Sherlock stumbled into 221b, having staggered up each of the seventeen steps leading to the door. John was reclined on the couch until Sherlock collapsed, hitting the floor with a large thump. It didn't take long at all until the ex-army doctor leapt to his side, flicked his phone out of his back pocket and dialled 999.

The all-too familiar process started up.

"Emergency, which service do you require? Fire, police, or ambulance?"

"Ambulance." John shot back with an air of calm, knowing that he would have to save the panicking for some other time. This could be a matter of life or death, and he knew he wasn't about to let his flatmate die.

A different, but no less detached voice came through. "Hello, this is the ambulance. "

"Hi, my flatmate has just collapsed and his breathing's very slow." John allowed himself a second to breathe. "We need an ambulance to 221B Baker Street. I think he's overdosed on an opiate, possibly morphine."

"Sending an ambulance now. What makes you think that?"

"His lips are blue, the slow breathing mentioned before, and his increased clumsiness when he came back to the flat. I'm a doctor, so I should be able to tell. He's in the recovery position now. Checking his airways now. Nothing's blocked. Got him a blanket. In shock, I think. I'm worrying-"

"What's your name?"

"John. John Watson."

"Well, John, don't panic- it sounds like you know what you're doing and you're qualified to do it. An ambulance should be arriving shortly, so I suggest you stay with him. Make sure the paramedics can enter the apartment easily. You did say you live in an apartment, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Well in that case, you should really make sure that the paramedics can enter easily and find your friend. I'm going to hang up now, as it seems you have it all under control. The best of luck, Dr. Watson. "

The incessant beeping of the disconnected call brought John back to what he had to do. Yes, it was a difficult task for one man to undertake, but- but then he realised. He didn't have to do it alone.

John shouted downstairs for Mrs. Hudson, and she came rushing up to the flat. For all her insistence that she wasn't their housekeeper, she did do an awful lot for the boys of Baker Street.

With Mrs. Hudson to help him, John continued keeping an eye on Sherlock while she went and cleared an entryway. John almost felt bad getting her to show people in to the flat so late at night, but then he remembered: those people were paramedics. Sherlock's life was reliant on him getting this right. On both of them- John, Mrs. Hudson, and the paramedics. Everyone would have to get it right for him to survive.

Speaking of, John looked down at his flatmate. Not only his flatmate, but his best friend of years. The man who made his psychosomatic limp vanish in a day- the man who would wake him up from night terrors with that obnoxious violin of his. Sherlock wasn't just any man, he was the one person John could trust that hadn't turned him away or betrayed it.

John focussed himself back on the moment, and on his patient. Thinking of Sherlock as a normal patient helped. John scanned him, looking up and down his body for symptoms. His breathing was much shallower now- and he barely had a pulse to speak of. It felt so strange, and so wrong to see Sherlock like this. Weak, limp, and out cold. A 3 on the Glasgow Coma Scale. John hated being the strong one out of the two of them. He hated the number 3 even more- it was his least favourite number.

When the ambulance did arrive, the paramedics administered naloxone to Sherlock before placing him in. John had to sit in the backseat for the seemingly endless ride to the hospital. He left the paramedics to their work- knowing how frustrating it could be when another doctor tried to intervene. John tried to distract himself by journaling. He only stole a few furtive glances towards his best friend, the best man at his wedding…

Back to the journal. John would force himself to write everything down, to describe even his own emotions in the most excruciating detail. Ella told him to journal so she could better understand where he was coming from. Naturally, John wasn't the best at describing things, even when it was on a cushy couch in his therapist's office.

That's when the emotion hit him.


	2. He woke up

The familiar walls of 221B Baker Street surrounded John once more, but this time he found himself in Sherlock's room, directly across from his bed. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged, eyes open, staring directly at John. Staring through him, almost. When John looked down to Sherlock's arms, he could barely see them. They were so thin, his ribcage pressed up against the purple shirt John usually loved to see Sherlock wearing. But not now. No, any time but now.

John tentatively began the question he dreaded asking- "Sherlock, when was the last time you ate?". He was scared for the one man he'd ever trusted.

"Don't worry," was Sherlock's one reply.

John waited for him to elaborate, but when there was nothing except silence he continued. "Sherlock, I can't do this! I can't just stand around while you let yourself fade away like this, while you let yourself die out of sheer neglect-" he looked around, hoping for help but knowing he would get none, "out of sheer stubbornness!"

"Don't worry," Sherlock said again.

John was infuriated- "Sherlock! You can't just tell me not to worry when I bloody well am worried! I apologise, I really do, that you think just because you're so intelligent and superior and whatnot, that you think I don't care about you. You're my best friend! You're the only person I've been able to fully trust in years, the one person who was able to ease my limp, the one fucking person who I'm connected to enough to know when you're not taking care of yourself! And you're not! You can't! You're like a child, like that. You can't seem to fathom actually keeping yourself alive unless I prod you constantly, and now not even then. This is everything I've ever been scared of, and you tell me not to worry!"

"Don't worry," Sherlock answered a third time.

John thought he felt someone's hand on his - but it wasn't Sherlock's, and he was the only other person in the room. But it felt awfully like his. Too much like his.

And that was the moment when John realised he wasn't at Baker Street. He had fallen asleep in what was a very upright hospital chair, directly across from Sherlock. The real Sherlock, the one who hadn't been by sitting cross-legged and starving himself. The one who might have managed to look peaceful in his sleep, if he wasn't surrounded by so many machines, and patients, and white fluorescents, and general worry. That was the one thing that connected the two Sherlocks- worry.

John, for once, was grateful for Mycroft's influence. When he otherwise wouldn't have been allowed to stay in Sherlock's room outside visiting hours, Mycroft had put in a word for him. Apparently, the British Government was more important than whoever made the decisions at St Bart's.

Sherlock still didn't look good. While he certainly wasn't in the same state as he had been the night before, he still wasn't close to being discharged. It would be a long road to recovery but an even longer one to becoming sober.

John knew he couldn't sit in the hospital all day, but he couldn't bring himself to leave Sherlock. He looked so vulnerable, so different to the detective he knew. The one who giggled at a crime scene, or was occasionally excited by a leaf when he went too long without sleep.

Yet deep down, John knew that Sherlock did care about him, and that if he were awake to say it he would tell John that there wasn't any use in both of them being miserable. That he needed to go out and do something for himself, so that at least one of them wouldn't be.

And so it was that when John was walking through the same park Mike Stamford had met him in years prior to this whole fiasco, Sherlock bolted upright and looked around the hospital room with panic.


	3. They negotiated

Sherlock was to spend two more days at Bart's before he was to be moved to the leading rehabilitation facility in London, for another two months. Of course, John wasn't consulted about any of this, and neither was Sherlock. Mycroft had simply decided it on his own accord, and as it would be the only way his rehabilitation would be financially supported, neither Sherlock or John could argue with him.

Sherlock himself appeared slightly better, now that he was fully conscious. He and John had even started a conversation or two.

"John?" Sherlock looked up from his bed, demanding attention.

John himself exasperatedly answered, "Yes, Sherlock?"

"Why do I have to stay at some icky retreat for two months?" Sherlock shot back. "Why can't I just go home to 221B after all this?"

John paused. Even he didn't fully agree with Mycroft's decision, as being away from home for so long did sound like it would do Sherlock more harm than good, he knew he still had to back up the eldest Holmes sibling's choice.

"It's for your own good, Sherlock. You'll get used to living sober, surrounded by professionals to help you through it. Besides, I'll make sure Rosie and I visit you whenever we can." It felt like the best response he could give.

Sherlock still wasn't convinced. "You better visit me, or else I'll be Bored with a capital B. And we all know that isn't fun for anyone involved."

John stopped, and wondered to himself. 'Is a high-end retreat really better than our flat?' Besides, he thought, walking around Sherlock's bed, if he was to go away, what would make him actually listen to a psychologist more than he already listened to John, Mycroft and Lestrade? Sure, he wasn't a trained psychologist, but he at least knew how to get through to Sherlock. 221B would probably be more comfortable for him, anyway. Perhaps he could talk to Mycroft about getting someone to the flat, rather than shoving Sherlock out.

Sherlock stared at John, waiting for him to stop pacing. "You do know that you may as well be saying all that aloud."

"Okay, well I'm going to call Mycroft for the both of us and try to compromise. You, Sherlock, should really try to get some rest."

The reply was muffled as he turned into the hospital pillow, and John grabbed his phone. But before he could call Mycroft, the eldest Holmes brother called him.

John began, "Hello? Mycroft? I was just about to-" before being rudely cut off.

"Yes, yes, I know you were about to call me. I do have eyes and ears absolutely everywhere. I also knew you were about to ask about the possibility of psychologist visits to your flat, or… phone calls or the like. And I think you might be onto something John."

Dr. John Hamish Watson was stunned into silence.

"So, as I was about to say, having seen you absolutely fawning over my brother in the hospital, and him consistently needing your presence, I think it may be best to allow him to rest at home for the duration of his recovery. After the next two days, where he'll need to be physically resting for the whole time, his discharge will be to 221B, not to the retreat I had previously planned. However, I will ensure he receives frequent home visits by the best psychologist I know, one who has been with our family for many of our… issues. And John, this doesn't mean you can just relax. I am entrusting you with ensuring that Sherlock doesn't have the opportunity to relapse."

John was agape. "Is that all you needed to say?"

The line went dead.


End file.
